


Voir Noir

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing he sees is her bringing a finger to her lips before they both melt into black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voir Noir

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the 'sensory deprivation' square in the 2010 round of [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org).
> 
> Thanks to thimble_kiss and odogoddess for their suggestions!

Her fingertips just brush his palm as she draws him down, down into the echoing stairwell. They are strangers here, and do not know the secret places where these English students come for privacy, but Fleur said she knew somewhere to go. Bright eyes as she said it, dancing smile. Now the floating strands of her hair are disappearing before him as they go into the darkness; she glances back to him, and the last thing he sees is her bringing a finger to her lips before they both melt into black.

Viktor holds her hand, and keeps his touch to the wall on the other side, lost and blind. How does she know where she is going? The tapping of her footfalls is fairy-light, making him feel heavy, clumsy behind her. Beneath his feet, the steps abruptly get shorter, and he nearly stumbles.

Her hand leaves his, and for a moment there is nothing, alone in darkness and silence — his breath catches.

A click and an ancient creak betray the opening of a door, and she reaches back for him; she brushes his elbow, first, and walks her fingers up his inner forearm, back to his hand.

"It is a storage room, I think," her thin whisper says as she guides him slowly in.

He holds his other hand out before him, not trusting that there is nothing there. The room smells of clean linens, as though even the very basements of Hogwarts are watched over by obsessive elves.

Her hand tugs gently down on his, and he hears the soft rustle of cloth, and the slight, questioning squeak that is the compression of springs. Feeling his way ahead of him, he sits down beside her.

"Stacks of mattresses are here," Fleur murmurs beside him. "For the students' rooms."

It is a perfectly ordinary thing to say, but the low hush of her voice seduces him — plain words in the mouth of poetry. He reaches for her, and she reaches for him, draws him back with her. He does not need to see her face now; her touch speaks of open desire, and he wants her too.

To do this in the dark is like a fumbling first time all over again, but with amusement instead of worry. He cannot work out how to undo her dress, and with a joking growl he finds the hem and runs his hands up underneath it, her knees and warm thighs — she gasps a little "oh!" of surprise — and her belly and her breasts, which are still covered. He touches the smooth fabric there, smooth as water. When his fingertips find the tiny bumps of her nipples beneath, she sucks in a breath through her teeth. He kisses her there, and along the rough lacy edges...

She takes him by the wrist and brings his hand down between her thighs. With a note of urgency that surprises him, she says, "Kiss me here."

Pleased to comply, he hurriedly feels his way down the bed — she kicks off her shoes, they land with a clatter somewhere in the dark — and as he pulls her underwear down, his has to put his legs off the small mattress, and his foot collides hard with something. A few somethings, it seems, as they topple to the floor with a ceramic-sounding crash that echoes spectacularly in the tiny room.

For a moment, Viktor is frozen in a cringe. There is silence.

And then they _laugh_.

Viktor has not had a laugh like this in what seems like years, falling on his side by her legs, hand on her knee while she shakes with giggles, her underwear around her ankles. His heart flies at the sound of it — she is a girl after all, this one, flesh-and-blood behind the haughtiness she shows.

"Someone must hear..." (With Fleur, he never worries about his English, native language to neither of them.)

"Hurry, then," she says, her laughter fading into a desirous sigh as she shifts down closer to him.

He pulls her underwear the rest of the way off, and — more carefully this time — positions himself. He has to feel his way up her thighs to find the meeting of them, his fingertips searching out the damp crease that joins hip and thigh, the curly wisps of her outer lips. So yielding and soft, those lips, and he touches lightly the wetness in between.

He brings his mouth down with care to where his fingers touch, and kisses her deeply. Her hips lift up beneath him, and he puts his hands under, holding her there as she arches, trembling. She tastes as salty as the sea, and he thirsts for her like seawater — a drink that makes him thirstier still.

He tongues the alphabet between her thighs, and before he has even got to Я, she is coming, her legs taut and shuddering as they press around his shoulders, her cries echoing around the room.

When at last she lies at ease, he comes up beside her. He finds her mouth the same way, touching her shoulders, her neck, her cheek. Their noses bump together, and she breathes a ragged laugh.

He is still dressed, and he needs her, and someone might still come looking for what made that crash. But he just lies with her for a time, holding the sweet, warm shape of her. Unable to tell how close their faces are to one another. He does not want, yet, to come into the light.


End file.
